Year 1400, Duskrend, Il'Dranol's Pantheon
The air smelled of stone and time. It was thick, dry, almost metallic, and it pressed into their lungs as the Rifted Seven blinked into existence.
They landed not on soil or grass but upon smooth marble, cold beneath their shoes. The world around them stretched impossibly tall: a vast hall built in the image of gods. Columns rose like giants, ribbed with veins of quartz, while the dome above them was painted with murals so ancient their colors had begun to fade. Battles sprawled across the ceiling — winged figures clashing with scaled titans, armies in bronze and gold marching beneath banners of empires none of them recognized.
Every sound they made was too loud. Their footsteps, the quickened breaths, the startled gasp from Sylvia — all of it echoed unnaturally, as if the hall itself mocked their smallness.
"Where… is this?" Arata's voice cracked. His fists clenched as if ready to punch reality into sense.
Touma's eyes swept the chamber, his sharp gaze tracing every line of architecture, every inscription carved into the pillars. "Not Osaka," he muttered, almost absently. "Not Japan. Not anywhere I know."
The air stirred, cold and unsettling. From the shadows at the far end of the hall came the sound of measured footsteps.
An old man appeared.
He was thin, hunched slightly, no taller than any frail grandfather they might have passed on the street. His hair was white, not merely from age but as if frost had seeped into every strand. Wrinkles carved deep rivers into his face, but there was nothing feeble in the way he moved. Each step was deliberate, each glance heavy, as though the years themselves had taught him how to carry weight without stumbling.
He did not speak at first. He only looked at them — not with suspicion, not with kindness, but with the weary detachment of someone who had seen too much and expected nothing.
Finally, his voice filled the hall. Calm. Deliberate. As if carved from stone.
"You're a thousand years too late."
The words struck harder than any weapon.
Mira's breath caught. "What… what do you mean?"
The old man did not answer her. His pale eyes swept across the seven of them, lingering long enough on each to unnerve.
Touma stepped forward, voice sharp. "A thousand years too late for what?"
The man's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "He arrived here a millennium ago."
Silence.
Arata's fists clenched tighter, his body trembling. "Who? Who are you talking about?"
For a moment, the old man looked as though he might speak. His mouth opened, his lined face twitching with some old, unspoken memory.
But Rei's voice cut through, quiet, almost reverent, her eyes wide with a realization that left her pale.
"Takaya…"
The name echoed through the chamber.
Year 1400, Duskrendi Meadows
The hillside was silent. The kind of silence that clung too close, where even the wind seemed reluctant to disturb the moment. A grave stood there, weathered and cracked by centuries, its edges chipped by countless winters, yet somehow still upright.
The name, though worn, was still legible.
Yuna.
Takaya knelt before it. His cloak fell perfectly around him, unwrinkled, untouched, as though time itself dared not stain him. His clothes were immaculate, each fold precise, his figure more statue than man. But his eyes told the truth — calm only on the surface, carrying beneath them the hollow depth of someone who had borne the weight of ages.
In his hands, he wove a crown of flowers. His fingers worked with deliberate care, weaving stem to stem, petals pressed gently into place. The crown was uneven, clumsy in spots, yet he continued as if the imperfections mattered. Perhaps because they mattered most.
When it was done, he placed it atop the grave. The petals shifted in the cold wind, bright colors against dull stone.
Takaya's hand lingered on the name, brushing against it as though the gesture alone could hold back time. His voice was low, almost swallowed by the wind.
"It's not much… but it's all I can give now."
A voice answered him, sharp and mocking, not from the world but from within.
"Pathetic craftsmanship. Half those stems look like snapped bones. Yuna would've smacked you with it."
Takaya didn't flinch. He didn't need to.
The voice chuckled. "Don't look so miserable. I'm the fun part of you, remember? You'd be unbearable without me."
The Veyl — not a thing of flesh or form, but a voice that carried cynicism like a crown. The shard of Takaya he had long forgotten, loud and cruel, too alive for a man so hollow.
Takaya's gaze never left the grave. "They're here, aren't they?"
"Oh, nailed it on the first try. Your little club of misfits just popped into Duskrend like confused little ducklings. And what do you do? Flower arranging. Very heroic."
"They're not ready for me."
"Ha! Translation: you're not ready for them. Don't start with that philosopher act. I am you. And right now? You're hiding."
Takaya stood, pulling his cloak about him. His eyes turned toward the faint column of smoke curling in the distance.
"There's a caravan about to be attacked. I need to stop it."
"You've got scouts," the Veyl said flatly. "That's what you trained them for. Let them do their job."
Takaya's voice hardened. "It's my job."
The Veyl laughed, sharp and bitter. "Of course it is. Can't let anyone else carry a burden, can you? Fine. Go butcher some hungry peasants with swords and call it 'protection.' Pretend it's about justice when it's just you refusing to face the living."
Takaya didn't reply. He stepped forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots, the wind tugging faintly at his cloak. Behind him, the flower crown trembled on Yuna's grave, petals fluttering like the last fragments of a memory refusing to be lost.
The road wound through thinning trees, its surface chewed into mud by wagon wheels and the thaw of winter. Ahead, three wagons rattled onward, oxen grunting as they strained against their harnesses. Travelers clung to the sides, faces pale with worry, their breaths fogging in the cold.
But the danger was already there.
Figures slid from the treeline. Rusted steel glinted. Ragged boots pressed into mud. Voices carried — harsh, greedy, desperate.
Bandits.
Takaya stood at the slope above, cloak stirring in the icy air. His eyes measured them like one might measure chess pieces.
"Ten," he murmured. "Maybe twelve."
The Veyl hummed. "Oh, look at them. Pathetic little vultures. Rust-eaten blades, cracked leather, the stink of desperation from here. Honestly, it'd be an act of mercy to end them quickly."
Takaya said nothing. He descended the slope in silence, boots crunching frost.
One of the bandits turned, eyes narrowing. He stiffened, then spat toward the stranger. "Oi! Piss off, old man."
Takaya stopped just short of them, cloak falling back enough to free his arms. His voice was calm, unyielding. "Leave."
They laughed. Harsh, jagged, the sound of men who had not known fear in too long. Two broke off, circling with knives flashing.
"Wrong road to play hero," one sneered.
The Veyl chuckled darkly. "Oh, this is going to be fun. Don't be merciful this time. Show them what you really are."
The first lunged. Takaya moved so smoothly it looked rehearsed. He caught the man's wrist mid-swing, twisted — a wet snap cracked the air. The scream that followed was choked as Takaya shoved him into his companion, toppling both into the mud.
The others roared, surging forward.
Takaya moved like water. Every strike was deliberate, efficient. His hand crushed throats, his elbow shattered ribs, his feet drove bodies into the ground. He wasted nothing. No flourish, no hesitation.
Within minutes, the road was strewn with groaning bodies. Not corpses, but broken men — their weapons shattered, their spirits shattered worse.
Takaya stood in silence, cloak unstained, breath misting in the cold.
The Veyl whistled inside his skull. "Beautifully efficient. Really, you're an artist. Except, you know, artists actually enjoy their work."
Takaya looked toward the caravan. Faces peered from within — wide-eyed, trembling, gratitude tangled with fear. Not one of them dared approach.
He turned away.
"You didn't even check if they're safe," the Veyl sneered. "No smile, no comfort, nothing. Just your quiet little savior routine. Gods, you're exhausting."
Takaya kept walking. Behind him, the bandits writhed in the mud, and the caravaners whispered as if they had seen not a man, but a phantom.